The Pensieve
by Tempted Melibea
Summary: Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle are two exceptional people about to embark on a truly exceptional journey. But will Head Girl and Head Boy be able to stand each other or will they tear each other's throats out?  AU, as Hermione was born in Riddle's time.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Pensieve

A/N: Some might be able to recognize this story as the plot develops. To those, I say: I am that author. I can't gain access to that account and as my writing style has changed decisively over the years, I am starting this story from scratch, starting afresh. Further explanations in my author's profile.

* * *

><p>The halls were nearly empty except for the two students bickering in the dark.<p>

Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle were Head Girl and Head Boy respectively. One was a Gryffindor; the other, a Slytherin. The fact that they had to work together didn't mean they could like themselves any less.

"All I'm saying is, you had no right to threaten that poor first year. He was _lost_, Riddle. You're always so… But of course I forget who I'm talking to."

"It doesn't matter whether he was lost or stupid, Granger. May I remind you what our nightly tasks are about? Keep the students out of the corridors, make sure no mischief occurs…"

"…and no one is allowed out after ten. Yes, I know, and nowhere does it _say _scare the beejeezus out of them, you emotionally illiterate snake!"

They stopped at the stairs, and the tall Slytherin rewarded Hermione Granger's indignation with a raised brow and what was beginning to become a slightly exasperated glare. "Don't try my patience. We all know I could have sent that student to the Headmaster or the Caretaker and he would have gotten severely punished. The fact that I insinuated—"

"You downright guaranteed him an expulsion!" his companion protested angrily.

"—_Insinuated _a great punishment for his misbehavior does not mean I wasn't doing him a great favor. We won't be seeing _that _student lost at night again, I assure you."

Hermione huffed. How a domineering megalomaniac such as Tom Riddle could have been given any position of power escaped her. But of course, he had always been a favorite. The Slytherin's insane, bigoted and sadistic tendencies escaped any teacher he charmed. Even Headmaster Dippet had been blinded by the charismatic git. It was lucky she was there to protect the students, even if the task had become nearly insufferable. There was no point reasoning with Riddle.

"_I'm _the Head Girl and I'm telling you not to do it again! Respect me for once, Tom. Whether you like it or not, _I am your equal_."

The dark-haired boy smirked. He knew just the way to annoy the source of constant nagging that was known as Hermione Granger, and it was needless to say he secretly enjoyed it. "Well, I'm Head _Boy_, Granger. Whether you like it or not, I am above you as a man—"

"You chauvinistic git!" an indignated Hermione seethed, repulsed, but of course he ignored her.

"—and as a student," he went on. "Don't delude yourself, Granger. You know full well I am the better wizard. Anyway, we're here."

That last statement shut any of Hermione's complaints as she looked at the door in front of her. Tom Riddle smirked to himself as Hermione's pride could not contain the wonder in her expression. "That door wasn't here before."

"It is a magic door, Granger," Riddle replied lazily. "And it answers only to me. Shall we enter, now?"

"This isn't a trick, is it? How could a door only answer to you? You can't be _that_ full of yourself to actually think… And the mere thought of a room filled with—"

"With magic items, yes. I know to your narrow mudblood mind it sounds incredible, but then again: you probably thought magic was incredible at some time, did you not? Your filthy background… And to think that I am allowing you to assist me despite your many limitations. But alas I need another mind, Granger, and unfortunately yours is the only mind I can trust at the moment. Can I trust it?"

"_Sod off_," she hissed her disdain for him with every letter. The boy chuckled.

"I know I can. You know why? You cannot pass this up, and unfortunately for you, I know it. And I know that if I demand your most absolute secrecy and loyalty in exchange for knowledge, information that I could just as easily learn on my own leaving your chances of graduating at the top in the dust… Your feeble witch's mind won't be able to resist, nor will your silly Gryffindor heart be able to betray me. So shall I close the door, Granger, or will you join me?"

"I cannot stand you," Hermione frowned. "But I'll do it. Only to gain knowledge."

"Good," Riddle said, and after a flick of his wand, the door opened.

The room was filled with piles and piles of many things: lost books, old shoes, even discarded bottles of butterbeer. Every once in a while, Hermione would look, and she would catch a glimpse of something wonderful. There was a broken Vanishing Cabinet, an old book on Ancient Runes, and she even thought she saw out of the corner of her eye an old copy of _Hogwarts, A History _written in Latin. She could not believe she had never noticed this place. Even more unbelievable was the fact that Tom Riddle had lead her there. What could he possibly be plotting?

"So where is it," Hermione said, feigning impatience with the young man whose sole mission in life had appeared to be, for the past year, to make her life miserable.

Tom Riddle knew what Hermione was trying to hide either way. "I knew you would like this place. You're welcome."

Hermione blushed. It was not because of a sudden bout of shyness. "Where is it, Riddle, I know this is going to cost me."

"The honor of joining me in my task? You are quite right, it will cost you dearly. The Pensieve is a few feet away. It is hidden, however. First, I need your word."

Granger looked at him suspiciously. "My word?"

"I do not like you, Granger, any less than you do not like me, but there are some qualities in you that I respect. They are quite useful to me. _You _can be useful. You are not stupid, like the rest, you are dedicated… And above all, you can keep your word. I need you to promise me that whatever happens in this room, you will not tell a soul. Break this promise and I will _not _be responsible for the _grave_ consequences. Am I understood?"

"And what do I get in return?"

Tom Riddle smiled. "The privilege of entering this room whenever you wish, having access to all of this room but the pensieve. This, as long as you tell me of _anything_ you've found. Anything. I want full access to the knowledge you can gain here in my absence, and full devotion to me during the time we spend together in this place. I am not asking for much, considering all that can be obtained here. And above all consider that I haven't mentioned this place _to a single soul_. The fact that I trust you with this—_you_, above all—"he trailed off, then quickly regained himself. "But it is not necessary to remind you of what I think of your kind for you to appreciate this as the highest honor."

Hermione frowned. She was accustomed to his usual venom. But, underneath all those insults, it seemed almost like Tom Riddle was trying to flatter her. The action was so unusual in him that it sent all kinds of warning bells in the back of her mind. "You have my word," she promised, though hesitantly. She cursed her curious mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Pensieve

A/N: My apologies, since a part of this story was written while sleep-deprived. If you can guess where that was, I'll need more sleep next time.

* * *

><p>The next day, Hermione was cranky. Neither she nor Tom had slept. They had sneaked out of the Magic Room a little before sunrise. Hermione, a nervous wreck—for even the Head Boy and Girl were only supposed to be allowed out of their dorms until their corridor patrol was finished at around 11 PM. Yet Tom Riddle, the smug bastard, had strolled to the Slytherin dungeons with relative ease. It was obvious he had misbehaved before.<p>

At sunrise, unable to sleep, Hermione grimaced at her tired face before quickly brushing her bushy hair. She mentally wondered why she even bothered. No matter what she did, she would never be pretty like Willow or Edwina, or any of the other girls she shared her dorm with. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, was devastatingly handsome—

Hermione blushed.

The fact that _he _had suddenly come up in her mind was nothing to be happy about. Hermione kicked herself for casting him in a favorable light, superficial as it was. True, Riddle was handsome, if some other girls were to be believed, but Hermione knew better. He was an insufferable, narcissistic bigot with a nasty condescending attitude and a penchant for intimidation. She wouldn't be surprised if she ended up being as evil a wizard as Grindelwald.

But he did have some redeeming characteristics. Hermione smiled as she remembered her last few hours stuck with him. They were studying the Pensieve Tom had found, the first one she'd seen up close in her lifetime. Riddle taught her how it was used and told her all about the one in Headmaster Dippet's office, how he'd seen him place a memory once, what it looked like when someone used it—it was all fascinating to her. Then they started pointing out interesting characteristics and throwing ideas about how it worked. Tom was especially interested in other possible uses and Hermione, she wanted to know everything. Tom had been wonderful, she had _never _had such a profoundly intellectual conversation with another person before and—

And she just wished Tom didn't have to be such a horrible human being, when he had such a brilliant mind.

The excitement Hermione got from remembering the Pensive was quickly deflated when she remembered whom she was thinking so highly of. Tom Riddle was not her friend, not that Hermione the bookworm ever had any friends. After seven years at Hogwarts, the closest thing to friendship she had found was with the teachers and the students she would offer to tutor. And Tom, who was so blatantly prejudiced, who was so openly disdainful of everyone and anyone he considered to be beneath him, who frequently scorned her just for her muggle-born blood, _he _was surrounded by people who loved and admired him, succumbing to his superficial charm. The world wasn't fair. Hermione hated Tom Riddle for it.

The Gryffindor Head Girl got dressed, took her book bag and went to the Great Hall for breakfast. The seats were mostly empty due to the early hour and, to be honest, Hermione liked it that way. It had always been uncomfortable to sit in crowds, painfully aware of how she was left ignored with her books while others engaged in friendly conversation. No, no, she told herself. It was much better to catch up on her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework if she wanted to get the best grades on their next test. Oh, but it was so difficult to concentrate while sharing a class with the Slytherins! And Hermione had never been as good with Defense as Riddle was.

Speak of the Devil, she thought, as Tom Riddle entered the Great Hall. He was early to breakfast and without his cronies for once. Hermione nibbled on a piece of toast as she pretended not to notice him sitting down at the Slytherin table and serving himself some toast and tea. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, did not have to pretend his detachment. She saw him take out a quill from his bag as well as a piece of parchment and busily scribble in it. Hermione wondered what he could be writing about before remembering her own Defense homework.

"Good morning, Hermione!" the cheery voice of Melvin Abbott, a second-year Gryffindor she had once tutored, greeted the witch. Hermione glanced up from her books and parchment and gave the boy a half-smile and a quick "Oh, good morning Melvin! How are you?"

"Couldn't be better! I'm doing very well in Transfiguration now, thanks to you," the little boy beamed proudly. Hermione smiled politely as the back of her mind wondered what Riddle could be _doing_.

"Oh, you're busy, right?" Melvin blushed, looking at her books and parchment sprawled rather freely all over the almost empty dining table. "Heh… Sorry. I know how you are with your classes. Can't beat the great Hermione Granger!" he joked, beaming his approval and grabbing a few muffins. "I was really here for breakfast on the go, actually. We're going to play an early match of Quidditch and—oh! Yeah! Your studies! Sorry! I've gotta run now—Good luck, Hermione! Gryffindor is bound to get the House Cup this year!" And with that last cheerleader-esque bout of encouragement, he left.

Hermione was left wondering if she should have encouraged him to stay.

No, but he was busy, she reasoned. He was just being polite. She just wished they all wouldn't treat her like she belonged to a different species who subsisted only on books. Even though she _did_, in fact, subsist almost only on books, and knowledge.

Once again, she glanced at Riddle only to see him deeper into his parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration. She briefly wondered what brilliant thing he could be thinking, it was marvelous to watch.

A fleeting thought passed through her mind and she contemplated the vague possibility of someday getting into his mind.

* * *

><p>Independent study was a privilege assigned to those seventh year students who were deemed to be considerably ahead in their own classes and therefore capable of independent research. Most years, the only students considered capable of independent research had been the Head students. Sadly, this year was no exception.<p>

Hermione inconspicuously glared at the boy sitting across from her. Tom Riddle's incessant note-writing was getting on her nerves. It was needless to say that, since September, the small confined section of the library they shared had become the place of biggest torment. They signed into the hidden room, spent three hours together Fridays through Sundays, and then signed out. In exchange for this, they got extra credit, several valuable letters of recommendation and the most valuable resource either of them could ask for: unrestricted access to the Restricted Section of the library.

Tom Riddle, of course, also had an added benefit to all this: a chance to further aggravate Hermione in what could only be a twisted plot to cause her cardiac rupture.

Yet today he had been strangely quiet. No thinly-veiled insults to her intelligence, no comments about her alleged low birth, _nothing_. It was almost as if she didn't exist. Hermione found she would have quite enjoyed the silence, had she been able to concentrate at all on her own essay, _On the benefits of the liberation of House Elves _("a rather boring, unimaginative title," Riddle had professed, after snatching her notes but a week ago).

She found herself staring, but she couldn't help it. Where Hermione's own writing was hesitant, full of double checking and bibliographical annotations, Tom Riddle's writing was more dignified, fluid. She hated to be forced to wonder what on Earth he could be writing about, having never been able to see Hogwart's current Head Boy so dedicatedly poring over a subject. His focus was so intense; it was like she wasn't in this room at all. She caught a glimpse of his writing—runes.

Of course he would be writing in runes. So bloody brilliant, that could practically be his code language. A nasty pang of envy reached her as she once again became aware of the fluidity of his actions, how naturally it all came to him. Yes, Hermione Granger also excelled in the study of Ancient Runes; but where her rune writing came with excruciating headaches and as well as occasional trips to a dictionary for translations, Tom freaking Riddle was already using runes as a way to keep whatever it was he was writing from—from who?

Probably from her, most likely.

Hermione's lips pursed at the implications of the act. It was no secret she had exceeded at every class; Runes was not an exception. The fact that Riddle thought he could get away with writing in runes to keep information from _her _was not only insulting, it was so preposterous she wondered who he thought he was dealing with at all.

She read again, and even upside-down she was able to make out the words mirror, gate, and—

"If you think I will allow you to steal my ideas," Tom Riddle said suddenly, causing Hermione to jump and redden visibly, "you are sadly mistaken. We are partners now, are we not? All will be learned in due time."

"I'm sorry—partners?" she questioned him in disbelief. Dark patronizing eyes raised up to meet her own.

"We swore an allegiance last night," his tone didn't ask, it declared. "You serve me and I give you what you want the most. Lord Voldemort is generous."

"Who?" her head was spinning, this was entirely bizarre.

"Me," Riddle said simply as he got up from his seat in one smooth movement, a tiny smirk forming in his handsome features. His attitude exuded a complete authority as he looked down at her. Hermione would have snorted had she not been talking to someone who was not only a complete megalomaniac, but had the power and aptitude to back it up. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort. It's an amusing anagram, don't you think? Flight from death."

"It sounds like a bad precautionary tale," Hermione muttered. It did not seem to bother Riddle in the least.

"Look, I don't want to be your partner," the witch continued, already feeling a migraine coming on due to sheer Riddle exposure. "I don't even want to be in the same room as you. You're malicious, selfish, bigoted… Can't you just say we're working on a… a mutual project? After all, what would all your little cronies think?"

Tom smiled. "Our agreement stays between us. You know I need you, Hermione."

_Whoa_. _Whoa_. Was Tom Riddle flashing _her_ his pearly whites? She suddenly felt her inadequacy, and it stung. "Are you trying to charm me? Don't you think I've seen you at the Slug Club enough?"

He chuckled just as she'd seen him chuckle a hundred times before: it was measured, rehearsed and completely charming. Then his eyes darkened, and a surprisingly warm hand forcefully grabbed hers, pinning it to their desk.

"Listen to me, Hermione Granger. One of these days, you will learn not to question or disrespect me; but until that day comes I am perfectly willing to settle for your most absolute obedience in this particular subject. And you _did _swear obedience."

"Riddle, let go," Hermione ordered, though the authority she tried to convey on her voice somewhat faltered as she tried to free her hand. She wasn't comfortable touching him like this—the thought that such a disgusting bigot was currently holding her hand repulsed her.

Almost as if he sensed her discomfort, Riddle leaned down, his face edging closer to hers. She could practically feel his breath on her skin as cold, hard eyes stared defiantly at hers and she could have sworn the sudden contempt she saw in him was reacting to something deep within her soul.

"Don't fight me, Granger," he said softly, casually. "Pretty soon, you'll find I'm not as bad as you think I am. We're both remarkably alike, after all."

"Please let go of me, Riddle," she whispered, defeated. There was no point in confronting Tom Riddle, the man who had even Hogwarts' headmaster in the palm of his hand. He was so stubborn, he'd probably hold on to her until hell froze over if she tried to agitate him further. And besides, she _had_ promised. And it wasn't like what he was asking for was completely abhorrent—she suddenly remembered the room filled with magical trinkets, old books and the pensieve.

"I expect to see you tonight at the Room of Requirement, immediately after our patrol," he informed her.

"We'll study the pensieve?" In her Gryffindor pride, Hermione hoped this sounded more like a condition she placed and not an agreement. Tom smirked.

"I'll tell you all there is to know about creating one," he promised, like a man promising Santa Claus. With an absentminded stroke of approval, he let go of her hand.

* * *

><p>To a reviewer, who wondered: I am trying, to the best of my ability, to keep all book characters as in-character as possible while remaining flexible enough to their circumstances. Please keep in mind that the only thing that changed in this universe is the fact that Hermione was born in Tom Riddle's time (born Dec. 1929). Yet this means she has spent her entire Hogwarts years without a Harry or a Ron, and with a competitor such as Tom Riddle to boot, which is entirely unfortunate for her but maybe a redeeming opportunity for Riddle. When I picture Hermione I see her closer to how I saw her in the first book and quite different to how she ended up. Tom Riddle has retained all his nasty qualities, as you may see.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I have to update this quick, while I've got the chance, because I might not get the chance to later. My living situation got drastically changed and it does not allow for as much as I'd like to write. However, this story is _still_ in my head, as I flex my muscles to write more original work, so here it is, completely unedited,

Chapter three.

The wait for Tom Riddle to arrive for patrol felt like forever to Hermione Granger. The actual patrol, however, felt even more endless.

Tom Riddle took great pleasure in patrolling every single bit of their designated hallways at a leisurely pace. A faint smirk kept forming across his perfect features—perhaps due to the fact that he knew how much the wait was torturing Hermione.

Perhaps? No, Hermione was sure that her torture was the reason behind those annoying little smirks.

"It's almost time for our patrol to be over," Hermione stated, causing another one of Riddle's little smiles. The Head Boy checked his watch.

"Tut, tut, tut—two minutes left," he stated.

Hermione Granger suppressed a groan. She had never been a patient witch, at least not where her quest for knowledge was concerned—but she could not let her one nemesis know how much her own impatience was getting to her.

After all, that was precisely what Riddle wanted.

One minute passed, then two, and then the dark-headed wizard turned around followed by the witch, and they walked in circles around the empty corridor with the vanishing door, passing the blank walls exactly three times.

"Witches first," Riddle stated, gesturing towards the door which had appeared in front of them. Hermione was not charmed, but entered the door nonetheless.

The Room of Requirement looked exactly as she remembered it from the night before.

"You would almost expect the contents of this room to change and stir due to the lack of organization," Riddle said, almost as if he'd read her mind. "But I have been here enough times to believe that this is not the case. I've come to the conclusion that this place has been used as a place for students and Hogwarts personnel to hide away… _inconvenient_ objects"—he glanced at a worn-down copy of a book titled _Bertha's Illegal Love Spells_, the legitimacy of which Hermione was skeptical of—"However I believe that this room hasn't been used in several centuries. Most of the things here can be dated back several hundred years."

"I wonder how old the pensieve is then. No memories are left in it," Hermione whispered almost to herself. Tom Riddle did not seem too eager to know the answer.

"The lack of memories is irrelevant, as we're not here to study the past," Tom said dismissively. Then, with an authoritative air that very much reminded Hermione of a professor, "Now, Granger, what did I say last night about viewing memories?"

Before Hermione could stop herself, the eagerness to prove herself worthy took over her. "When a person looks at memories through a pensieve, they are physically transported into the memory itself, although in a state that makes the witch or wizard viewing the memory incapable of physically interacting with the memory. It is almost as if they were travelling to the past, with the pensieve acting like a portal of sorts—some wizards have speculated that pensieves themselves do not hold memories at all, but rather that memories serve as a kind of trigger through which the portal of a pensieve can be activated. Nicholas Flammel, for example, once wrote—"

"That is enough, this is not a class for you to show off on" Riddle stopped her, although he seemed strangely pleased. "Nicholas Flammel? You didn't tell me you'd gone to the library for further information today. Although I shouldn't be surprised…"

For some reason, Riddle's tone of approval resonated within Hermione's chest, not that she would ever let him know.

"So are we going to test this theory, then? Have we got a memory?" Hermione inquired, but then Riddle waved her off.

"Not necessary, witch, Flammel is exactly right. See those runes etched around the basin?"—Riddle gestured towards the pensieve lazily before continuing—"To the best of your ability, translate what they mean."

Hermione rolled her eyes. _To the best of her ability?_ As if she did not know what she was doing. She looked the etchings on the basin thoughtfully. Some of them she did not recognize, but the others looked straightforward enough. "There are gates… then memory runes… I believe it's safe to assume that it's an incantation to activate the memories in the pensieve."

Riddle arched a brow cockily, he was not impressed. "Gates and memory runes, Granger? How old do you think this pensieve is?"

"I _know_ pensieves must be pretty old magic, Riddle," Hermione immediately began, offended. "The oldest mention of them I could find in the library dated back to a reference to a paper written in the year 1,332 and even then it seemed like the author, Ibn al-Nafis, was speaking of an ancient artifact—"

"So you can read and retain information," Riddle cut her off. Hermione suppressed a sudden urge to yell at him, but he proceeded quickly. "But can you process the information you retain? _Think_, Granger. Do you not see the flaw in your translations? The pensieve as an artifact has existed for well over a millennia, yet you are using modern rune translations to interpret it. See those runes about the gates? Those might as well be runes for a portal. And the so-called memory runes you see there, those are invoking moments but they come with a warning. Now _these _runes, over here"—he added rapidly in the same breath—"the translation of these runes have been lost to time, but don't you see? All this time, wizards have been using pensieves as convenient little artifact to store their memories, yet modern wizards do not really comprehend what they're for. You probably remember incantations written in runes rely on the intent behind them more than translation. Using modern translations to interpret these runes, when they are so old, could only lead to mistakes. And who's to say we are underutilizing incredibly powerful magic due to sheer ignorance?" Riddle paused, dark eyes brighter than Hermione had ever seen them, and looked at her. There was a hint of excitement in his voice. "Do you see what this could mean, if we explored the possibilities further?"

Hermione stared at him, and a disturbing thought entered her head. The way Riddle was speaking reminded her a bit too much of herself when she discussed textbooks. It was fast and hurried, as if he had been waiting for a long time to get his thoughts out and be heard by someone else. Almost as if taking a leaf from Hermione's book, Riddle ignored her silence and continued, this time resuming his professorial air.

"Granger, do you know why only wizard memories work with the pensieve? Why don't muggle memories work as well?"

"Muggle memories lack the trace of magic," Hermione answered immediately, impulsively acting as if she were in class. "Not being magical beings, their memories cannot interact with the magic imprinted into the pensieve. As many other magical artifacts, a pensieve needs something with a magical aura to interact with, in this case a memory."

"Why a memory, instead of an object?" Riddle's eyes were still bright, there was a barely contained excitement in them.

"Most likely the pensieve works best interacting with organic magic instead of inorganic magic. As we learned last year in Charms—"

"List materials that can be used in organic magic to interact with objects," Tom cut her off again.

Hermione took this as a challenge, but she answered with ease. "Memories, of course, interact only with a pensieve, but there's also unicorn hair, which along with phoenix feathers are often used in wands… Mermaid tears, dragon scales, beetles—"

"Narrow it down to human materials, witch," Riddle said irritably, causing Hermione to roll her eyes again with exasperation, but she continued.

"Hair, nails, sometimes just skin cells, blood (although that's usually used in only the darkest magic)…"

"Why is human blood only used in dark magic?"

"Blood is often thought to contain the life force of a being. In human beings, it would mean taking the life force of a person, which is considered too close to murder for decent human beings"—Hermione looked pointedly at Riddle—"It's the same with unicorn blood; drink unicorn blood and you are cursed, because killing unicorns is abominable and so is taking the life force of such pure beings. You might not be exactly killing the person, but by taking their life force… It's too intimate, too risky…"

"Too powerful," Riddle added, but Hermione was not in the mood for one of their moral debates.

"Besides, blood magic is heavily controlled by the Ministry of Magic. I don't know why I'm even mentioning all of this to you. Surely, you know all this."

Tom Riddle paused and looked into Hermione's eyes with deep interest, causing the witch to blush. He was deep in thought, and it was almost as if he were debating something with himself. Feeling self-conscious, Hermione looked away but to her surprise Riddle grabbed her by the chin, redirecting her gaze back to his.

They stayed silent for a moment which Hermione estimated to have lasted hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. Hermione's face reddened, but she did not look away. Tom's eyes were so dark, she almost got lost in them. There was a calculating intelligence behind them that both fascinated and intimidated her at the same time. And he was so handsome… Hermione constantly had to remind herself that this was _Tom Marvolo Riddle _and not just some random boy. He was evil, infuriating…

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice deep inside her insisted that he was a threat…

Hermione was about to fight her way out of Riddle's grasp when finally he spoke.

His voice was soft and hesitant. She might not have even registered it had she not seen his lips moving. "Granger, I don't know… Would it be wrong of me to trust you?" His expression deep in thought, it was almost as if he had been asking himself the question.

Something strange moved in her chest as Hermione tried to understand what the wizard in front of her was saying. When she found the words to reply, they came out sounding strange and far too nervous. "I… What? I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"It's one thing for you to know about this room and the pensieve," Tom whispered. His hand was still on her chin, forcing Hermione to keep her eyes on his. Their position would have felt very intimate had it not felt so frightening. "It's quite another for you to know my full plans… perhaps even my future…"

A scream caught on her throat when Tom moved his face even closer to hers. The delusional part of Hermione almost expected him to kiss her, but instead he stopped millimeters away from her body. Never mind how frightening it felt, this position was _too intimate_. She could feel his breath on her lips as she struggled to find the will to move but it was almost as if she had been petrified. She heard the hint of a wicked smile on his lips as she heard him ask her, in a voice lower than a whisper,

"Hermione Granger, can I trust you?"

She paused. She couldn't _breathe_. But this was _Riddle_. This was _Tom Riddle_.

'_Move away, Hermione, move away!'_ the small voice in her head shouted.

"Hermione…" Tom began, and to her horror it sounded more unlike a whisper and more—but was he moving closer towards her!?

He…! Was…! In… sane...!

'_MOVE AWAY!' _she heard herself think again, and this time she did manage to move and pushed Riddle as far away from her as she could when she felt a soft flutter upon her lips.

'_WHAT THE—!?'_ she could hear herself think even as her bewildered eyes saw Riddle's humored expression. He wasn't only a sadist, he was a pervert to boost, and he…

Hermione's face went beet red as her mind replayed just what he had been about to do.

"What's wrong, Granger?" Riddle asked calmly, even as Hermione knew that he was secretly laughing at her expense.

Hermione didn't want to give him the satisfaction of answering him and chose to glare at him instead. That glare intensified when she heard Riddle's soft and composed chuckle—

'_Damn _that man.'

"Anyhow, _Hermione_," Riddle started again with a seemingly friendly smile and Hermione hated the way her name so casually escaped his lips. He once again moved closer towards him but this time Hermione stepped back as if Riddle had just transformed into a particularly threatening snake. "The question of your trustworthiness remains. What would you do with the information you discovered here if you did not find it to be… convenient…"

Hermione stared at him. "What?"

"Say, you found something unpleasant about… the pensieve… or myself, would you go to Headmaster Dippet?"

"What do you mean, something unpleasant?" Hermione asked him. "Like, something dangerous? Of course I would go to Headmaster Dippet!"

Tom Riddle's eyes narrowed dangerously and Hermione immediately knew she had given him the wrong answer. Something else clicked in Hermione's brain. She raised an eyebrow at Riddle disapprovingly.

"You knew we would find something dangerous?" Hermione began. She crossed her arms and preparing to give Riddle another stern talking to. She was suddenly less afraid as she reverted back into her roles of both Head Girl and the Head Boy's conscience. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, what were you thinking? You knew we would be getting into something dangerous and you didn't even bother to _tell me_ before you brought me into this mess? We could be expelled! Or get ourselves killed! Despite what you think, Tom Riddle, you are _not _the most infallible wizard alive and—_Jesus Bloody Christ_"—the muggle-born in her exclaimed, forgetting all about wizard expressions—"We're still _seventh_ years, for Christ's sake! _God freaking dammit! _Get that into your head already!"

Tom Riddle's eyebrow was raised further and further up during Hermione's tirade. He looked particularly bemused at the angry witch. When she was finally finished, he treasured the momentary silence before sternly asking, "Must you really let your mudblood heritage show with every word you speak?"

"ARGH! I'm going to Dippet" Hermione yelled in frustration and moved his back to him to to leave the _Room of Frustration. _Before she managed it, Riddle's grip was firmly on his arm. "Jesus! Let go of me!" she yelled, but Riddle only pulled her closer to him. She was livid, but so was he.

"'Merlin! Let go of me!'," Hermione heard Riddle "correct" her in a mocking tone, further adding to her fury. She was about to give him a sarcastic retort before she noticed it.

The entire room, which had previously been dead silent, now rumbled with the echoes of moving objects.

Hermione briefly thought perhaps an earthquake was going on, but that would be ridiculous. To the best of her knowledge, Hogwarts hadn't been placed near a tectonic plate. The only reason why the Room of Requirement would be shaking would be due to magic, and that couldn't be possible because—

_Holy shit._

Hermione Granger froze in her spot. As her anger subsided, she too felt it—the oppressive feeling of powerful magic that was clouding the atmosphere as a dangerous threat.

And _holy shit_, it was coming off of _Tom Marvolo Riddle_.


	4. Chapter 4

There was _no way_ all this magic was coming from Riddle.

_No way_, and yet it was.

Hermione flinched. Riddle looked _pissed off_.

"I'm afraid I cann_ot_ let you go to the Headmaster, Hermione," she heard him say over the rumble of the room. His tone was shockingly composed and civil; only a glint in his eyes betrayed the rage he expressed via magic.

'_What the Hell,_' Hermione thought before her mind travelled elsewhere. She _had _to go to the Headmaster. Whatever was going on with the pensieve was a _big deal_—she didn't know why, but her instincts were rarely wrong where the wizard currently in front of her was concerned.

Slowly but surely, Hermione composed herself. She was a Gryffindor. She would do what needed to be done.

She drew out her wand.

"Petrificus—"

_B O O M!_

Something _exploded_ right next to her ear, but how? Riddle hadn't brought out his wand—

Surprised, Hermione ducked almost a second too late. Shards of glass collided with her shoulder and, though she'd done her best to cover her face, she felt the sting of a nasty gash right under her left eye.

_Shit._

She had to make a run for it.

"Protego!" she shouted as she covered her back with a shielding charm and ran towards the door. It was no use—it was like an invisible rope had grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back towards Tom Riddle.

"Now, now, no need to hurry out so quickly—" she heard Tom's patronizing voice, still terrifyingly calm. The little voice that resided in the back of Hermione's mind told her that he was going to kill her—but surely the voice wasn't being rational.

Was it?

She felt an adrenaline rush kick in as she tried to run towards the door again. Fear clouded her judgment. She felt a sick wetness trickling down her arm and she realized with horror that it was her blood—

The invisible rope pulled her again—

Riddle's face was victorious—

And then the rope pulled too hard, and she collided against the pensieve.

She felt in an instant that something _else _had gone terribly wrong. Tom Riddle's face went pale as a ghost, and a sharp feeling of dread overcame her.

_The pensieve was glowing._

Hermione felt Riddle's hand upon hers as he shouted her name.

The bright white glow of the pensieve blinded her.

September 13th, 1998—

It was a bright and leisurely Sunday morning for everyone but Hermione Granger as she sat by the great lake.

The new school year had begun less than two weeks ago and she was still readjusting herself to the world of academics rather than camping and fighting for her life.

The brown-haired witch sighed and read the paragraph in front of her for the third time since she'd sat down, trying to not pay attention to the noises surrounding her. The wind could explain the sound of rustling leaves and the laughter of several first years was definitely not the sound of mocking Death Eaters—

But she simply couldn't adjust to it. She felt uneasy.

Five months ago, she had been fighting with Death Eaters to save her life. Five months ago, she had been hungry and desperate with Lord Voldemort in power and the life of her friends in danger.

The wizarding world had been at war far too recently. It felt bizarre to Hermione to go back to her studies.

"We need to finish our seventh year if we want a proper Hogwarts education," she remembered telling Ron that summer. She and Harry planned to go back to Hogwarts, but Ron had not been too convinced.

"We've all been offered jobs at the Ministry already, Hermione. Besides, what difference does it make, we've defeated Voldemort! What more education do you need than that?" Ron had argued.

"A job at the Ministry is all the more reason to finish our seventh year at Hogwarts, especially if you're going to be an Auror, Ron," Hermione had countered. "You can't seriously expect to fight dark wizards safely with a dropout education. Tell him, Harry—"

But Harry had stayed out of their argument, and in the end, only she and Harry had gone back to Hogwarts with Ron staying behind.

Hermione Granger sighed and rubbed her temples, her book forgotten. She knew that Ron wanted to start work right away so he could start saving for a family of their own, but she still felt wary. Not only were they going to have to continue their relationship long-distance, but he'd hardly had time to write during his Auror training. Hermione only hoped Ron was doing okay, wherever he was. His last letter had mentioned something about vampires, something Harry had been really excited about.

Harry was going to start his own Auror training as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts. Meanwhile, Hermione— She simply wasn't that good at Defense Against the Dark Arts (and neither was Ron, for that matter, which worried the heck out of her!). Sure, Hermione had done okay during her fight against the Death Eaters, but still—

The memories haunted her. She hadn't been meant for this.

Despite her supposed Gryffindor courage, Hermione felt like a coward.

Hermione willed herself to continue reading hoping that human Transfiguration eventually made sense. She couldn't push the thought away that this lack of concentration was not normal in her. She felt constantly stressed all the time, and things she had been passionate about no longer held any meaning to her.

What was the purpose of all of this? She remembered George…

"Hermione?" Harry's voice broke the witch out of her dark thoughts. He looked worried.

"Are you alright? You weren't at the library," the wizard who had defeated Voldemort explained as he sat down next to her, his green eyes focused on her. Hermione stared at him for a moment, contemplating how much more mature he looked now as compared to their first year at Hogwarts. She imagined she had grown up significantly since then too.

"Yes, I'm fine Harry," Hermione said with a faint smile. "Just needed some fresh air is all."

"How is Ron? Any news?" Harry asked even though he knew that most of Ron's letters were addressed to him as well as Hermione.

"No news yet, but I've managed to piece enough information together to guess that they're somewhere in Transylvania. Ron isn't exactly careful about hiding the details."

Harry smiled. He always got noticeably excited when the subject of Auror training came up. "Transylvania, eh? Wow, do you reckon we'll get to go to Transylvania too when it's time for our Auror training?"

"Err—" Hermione began.

"I know, I know, Hermione. We should focus on our N.E.W.T.s first. Though I must admit I'm a bit jealous of Ron. It took some guts to go against Mrs. Weasley and go straight to a job in the Ministry after McGonagall offered us a chance to come back to school."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Someday, he's going to find out that a good education is worth more than a job at the Ministry. But until then, I'm glad you went back to school, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "I like Hogwarts. I wouldn't have missed a chance to come back one last time. This is the first place that ever felt like home to me. But I wouldn't lie and say I'm not anxious to become an Auror…"

"That is understandable, seeing as how you've already proven you're perfectly prepared for the job," Hermione said proudly. Then she casually steered the conversation away from fighting Dark Wizards. "How are you doing in Transfiguration? We should be expected to learn human Transfiguration this year, and I know it's not your strongest subject, I'm having trouble with it myself…"

"Yeah, we didn't use too much Transfiguration when we were out camping last year did we," conceded Harry. "Think we need some practice? I bet we could find plenty of stuff to practice on if we asked the Room of Requirement. We could ask Ginny to join us." The youngest Weasley was in her seventh year along Hermione and Harry.

"That's probably a good idea, but do you think the room survived the fiendfyre? We still don't know…"

"Only one way to find out, isn't there?" asked Harry with a smile. "C'mon, let's find Ginny. I bet she could use some help on Transfiguration too."

When Hermione came to, the blood was gone, and she felt the distinctively prickly feeling of skin mending itself. Whispers of foreign incantations circled the room in a hushed and strangely comforting manner.

She opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but a heavy pressure on her healthy shoulder overpowered her and forced her to keep still. Through blurry vision, she saw an incredibly handsome angel. His brows were furrowed in concentration and a vague hint of worry as he continued the incantations that Hermione finally recognized to be healing spells. Her mind was scrambled—what was she doing on the floor like this?

Was she dead?

It took her a few more moments before she became aware of her surroundings and realized that the angel currently healing her was Tom Marvolo Riddle. The realization caused a sharp scream to escape her lips. Her eyes opened wide and, with a start, she jumped up, heart beating incredibly fast. _She remembered their fight leading up to this._

"Granger, stay still!" Riddle hissed. There was a commanding urgency in his tone, causing her to look down and see her exposed shoulder was still in mid-healing. She almost threw up when she saw that only a fine layer of film covered her shoulder blade. _What the fuck—_

"Some kind of jar—a potion—exploded right next to you during our time," Riddle explained instantly upon seeing her shocked expression. He conveniently neglected to mention what exactly had caused the explosion, but Hermione remembered. It had been _him _–_his magic_. "I'm not sure what the potion was—perhaps a failed experiment—but it's clearly acidic and, if I don't treat your wound, it's going to continue corroding the flesh until only the bone is left."

'_My_ flesh,' Hermione's mind edited the words. '_My _bone.' She started to freak out.

Irrationally, she moved to grab at her shoulder and try to wipe whatever it was that was corroding her away.

"STOP!" came Tom Riddle's authoritative voice, so stern that Hermione felt paralyzed to her spot. It was almost like she had been petrified, but Riddle didn't pay attention to her. He resumed the incantations at once, concentrating on them and nothing else.

Hermione looked around and finally noticed the black ashes surrounding them along with the pensieve covered in dark ash. Why did it look like the entire Room of Requirement had been on fire? Did this happen while she had been passed out?

She tried to voice her question but knew Riddle wouldn't answer. It took him what seemed like an eternity to finish the work on her shoulder and then, as if by magic, she found she could move again.

"What is going on?" Hermione asked, although whether her question was to Riddle or herself she did not know.

"Some of your blood spilled on the pensieve and we arrived here," Tom explained straightforwardly. It was almost as if he had been expecting this, but Hermione detected mild concern in his voice. "I have never actually tested this before but I suspect that this"—he gestured towards the room—"means my theory is correct and pensieves _can _work as a portal with human blood as well as human memories. Now, if I'm not mistaken—and I rarely am—we should have arrived at some point in time during your lifetime."

Hermione stared at him in disbelief, her mind devoid of rational thought. Tom continued. "This is rather unfortunate, as I was hoping we could use _my _blood… but no matter. If we find you, we will probably be able to find me as well, so the end result is the same. Now the only question is: where in time are we? This must be somewhere in the future, judging from this mess…"

Hermione Granger gaped at him like a fish, opening and closing her mouth. Finally the words came out. "Now, hold on a second…" she began bossily. Her job as Tom Riddle's Conscience and Voice of Reason was clearly far from over.

Riddle rolled his eyes as if he had been expecting her train of thought. "We won't actually _talk _to our past or future selves, messing with time," Riddle began, although Hermione thought that he was quite suspiciously avoiding eye contact. "It's not like we could mess with it. If using blood is at all like using memories, we won't be able to be seen at all, so there is no risk of altering history. And besides, this is most likely the future, so whatever knowledge we gain from this trip has already been destined to have occurred."

"Tom Riddle, you can't _go _to the future," Hermione began, trying to argue some sense into the clearly delusional wizard in front of her. Did his narcissism know no bounds? "It states so right in _Laws of Timeturning_—"

"Books can be wrong," Riddle said simply, cutting her off. "We are _proving _them wrong, right now. Open your eyes, Granger. We are living proof."

Hermione felt a headache forming. She still had to go to Headmaster Dippet. It was clear to her that Riddle, in his fury, had burned this whole place down until only the pensieve remained, blackened with ash. This was _dangerous_. _He_—she carefully eyed Riddle—was dangerous. She had to alarm Headmaster Dippet. The sheer destructive power that she had seen him generate—

"Now—how are you feeling? Are you alright?" she heard him ask casually, his hand carefully rested on her undamaged shoulder as he evaluated the healed one. There was a mild polite friendliness in his voice. She had heard him use this tone of voice before.

Hermione felt herself nod but her mind began to work at full speed as the fog caused by her fainting began to clear up. It was clear now to her that the calm, composed and charming Tom Riddle was more than just a shallow façade—It was an incredibly skillful and meticulous act, and even she never even suspected…

"You had me worried for a moment there when you decided to pull away so brashly. However, I managed—doesn't hurt at all, does it?" he asked complacently. "Pretty decent healing job for a simple _seventh year_, don't you think?"

…the full extent of it. He was too clever, and too powerful. Even though he was clearly a skilled wizard, she'd had no idea of the extent of what he could truly do… Had he been purposely hiding it?

_He was not human. _

"You won't have to go to the infirmary, when we go back to our time," there was a friendly smile on his lips. As if he really believed his nonsense.

_He was insane._

How was she going to get out of this?

"Riddle—" she began carefully, her head frantically working to find a way to get herself out of this mess. Should she pretend to have forgotten about what happened? Go along with his belief that they had travelled to the future? Hermione knew she had promised her silence, she had given her word—but she really had to alarm Professor Dippet, didn't she?

Tom Riddle had almost _killed_ her.

"Tom—" Hermione tried again, her voice this time more soft and soothing. This seemed to have caught the wizard's attention. His hand went back to her chin, lifting her head up so that her eyes met his. He only needed a fraction of a second.

"You don't believe me, do you," he sounded so convinced that Hermione felt stupid for not having figured it out sooner. Riddle knew Legimency.

She averted her gaze pretty much instantly.

However, the damage was done.

"Not really. How could I?" she admitted with a small voice. "But can you blame me? The burden of proof falls on you.

A small laugh left Riddle's lips and he immediately moved closer to her as if to kiss her. Hermione pulled away immediately—she did not like this forced intimacy.

"Such a clever little mudblood," Riddle commented completely ignoring her discomfort around him. "And so full of disbelief. Is it really that hard to trust me? I guess, like the disciple Thomas, you have to see to believe—that can be arranged. Now hold still."

Hermione's mouth hung open in a mixture of rage and disbelief as Riddle forcefully grabbed her chin again. She tried to move, to push him away, but then a forceful arm was on her back and she found her body moved closer to his against her will in what felt almost like an embrace. This was _not _happening. This could _not_ be happening. Tom Riddle's eyes were especially dark as he read through her brown ones looking for _something—_

But what could he possibly want? '_No—don't think!'_

Before Hermione could push all her thoughts safely out of her mind, the door to the Room of Requirement opened.


End file.
